


And did you come to stare or wash away the blood?

by regicides



Category: Naruto
Genre: Creative cunnilingus, M/M, Masturbation, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 17:36:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10313504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regicides/pseuds/regicides
Summary: It had been a long time since Deidara had seen Sasori outside of Hiruko’s shell.In fact, it had only happened twice before. And while Deidara wasn’t the type to savour old memories – why hold onto something when you could create, destroy, ravage (“KATSU!”; he imagines the smoke, the rubble, the bang) – he remembers, itches to remember, those two scenes.





	

It had been a long time since Deidara had seen Sasori outside of Hiruko’s shell.

In fact, it had only happened twice before. And while Deidara wasn’t the type to savour old memories – why hold onto something when you could create, destroy, ravage (“KATSU!”; he imagines the smoke, the rubble, the _bang_ ) – he remembers, itches to remember, those two scenes.

(The first: Deidara remembers a jolt felt, echoed through the inside of him upon seeing soft features – so young, too delicate. Red hair. Heavy lidded eyes paradoxically keen, sharp. Lips too pretty to have been so often upturned into a slashed smirk when faced with many a dismembered body; sand tainted red, result of their combined force.)

Sasori never wants to leave Hiruko’s protective carapace, so when he does it’s not because he has a sudden need to feel the sun on his skin, the wind in his hair. Deidara laughs – his partner is a fucking puppet, after all.

No, Sasori is always angry, blistering, when he steps out of Hiruko. Deidara watches as he unfolds himself, faces the world with a scowl, minimal but radiating nonetheless. It’s the only sign of emotion on an otherwise lifeless body and it sends a shock straight through Deidara’s very core.

(The second: Deidara remembers him as seen through a thick veil of dust – red and brown and earth and fury. Hiruko had been hit, damaged. Sasori had been forced to exit his puppet mid-battle. He stood in the midst of the battlefield, blades fanned out along his back, his own self a weapon. He looked vicious, repentless...annoyed. Fixing Hiruko didn’t take long at all. The battle finished quickly after. Sasori had never been a very patient man.)

The third time Deidara sees Sasori’s true form – his puppet body masterpiece, a living sculpture that Deidara would never outwardly praise but that he nonetheless admires the shape of, the slope of – is, as they say, the charm. Perhaps it’s Sasori’s influence on him, irony of ironies, that this image of his partner not only ingrains itself into Deidara’s brain, stays, but also is recollective of the visuals associated with the previous two times Deidara has been faced with red hair, features soft with fury and lips, full, slashed into a smirk. This time, Sasori is drenched in red, blood. He lives up to his title – gifted to him (burdened, some say) before Deidara’s time, title whispered even in the far corners of Iwagakure where a young boy grew up, shunned and wild, pushed aside not because he didn’t want to be the weapon they so desired him to be but because he was a boy and they kept saying _girl, girl, girl_.

Sasori of the red sand, they say, and now Deidara has witnessed him.

He stands crimson, delicate. Sweltering in the desert heat – home long since renounced, trumped and traded for wooden joints, compartmented heart – Sasori does not sway.

  
Deidara can’t help but think that while he’d left (betrayed, some say) his own village in a haze of smoke and detritus and laughter, Sasori left his by leaving a trail of red and gore and silence, gaping, in his wake.

This Sasori is the one that Deidara sees, conjures, as the man deftly exits his scorpion skeleton, hull that hosts and holds his most successful and personal piece. This is the Sasori that convinces, if only momentarily, if only for the heat felt, at once lightning quick and simmering, Deidara that perhaps – only perhaps – sometimes art can be more than fleeting, more than the uncalculated space of a single moment.

When Deidara slips the precautionary gloves off of his hands later, when he lets the mouths on his palms breathe, finally, he has that image of Sasori – _red_ – at the forefront of his mind. Eternal or not, the visual refuses to leave him. He feels and smells and sees – eyes closed, palms splayed, splaying, sliding down his chest; licking – the tang and earth and calm fire of a man exited his carapace, blazing – for all that he cannot feel the heat – unswaying and quiet amidst the dunes. Deidara could almost believe it to be an illusion but for the fact that he feels it so intensely within himself, image burning and becoming that much more vivid, defined, as he trails down his own skin.

Deidara thinks of the desert, of the scorching, of the heat: he tracks a wet path on smooth flesh; flushed contrast – response to the aridity of the image making him so wet. At the juncture of hips and thigh Deidara halts the downwards movement of his palms momentarily. He focuses the mouths there, licks and laps at the tender skin stretched taut over sinewy muscle. Deidara thinks about art. He sees red and soft and blood soaked dunes. He inches a palm towards the wet heat between his legs, humid; he feels the warmth of breath approaching. Carefully, lazily, almost, he teases the tongue up into the cavity there, tasting himself. Slowly, lips on palms spread lips between thighs and Deidara moans at the contact. The meeting of tongue and palm and cunt leaves him panting, breathless; he quickens the pace of his hand, unable to go as languidly as he wishes, fire pooling in the pit of his stomach. Snaking an arm back up, trailing hips, stomach, chest, Deidara reaches for a nipple, sensitive, peaked and hard under his shirt. Tongue circles the nipple, sucking on it as his other hand continues to stroke expertly, knowingly, at the wetness between his thighs; tongue delves deep into him one moment only to be rapidly taken away, leaving him empty. Dragging his palm over his clit, Deidara flicks minutely at it as he continues to lick at his nipple with his other palm, working himself up. The image of Sasori – bloody, soaked, beautiful Sasori – leaps to the forefront of his mind again, elicits another, longer moan, makes it so that the tongue currently prying his thighs open burrows that much deeper into himself. Sensation overwhelms him as he revels in his own taste, adding to the heat coiling low his stomach. Deidara is burning up, sweating; flushed skin and warm, deft hands – the fresh night air of the desert isn’t nearly enough to cool him down. Especially not when that same desert evokes in him memory of a certain slashed smirk, lidded, downcast eyes and red, red hair. A final flick of his clit paired with a teeth-laced lap at his nipple catapultes Deidara into explosive, all-consuming pleasure; his body is all hot, white, overwhelming heat and sensation.

The image of Sasori, scorching, wavers and fades, making place for an easy sort of contentment.

Satiated, Deidara thinks to himself that in the end, art really only truly is a single, fleeting moment.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the most self-indulgent thing i've ever written. hope y'all enjoyed


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